The Troubadour
A TROUBADOUR he playedWithout a castle wall,Within, a hapless maidResponded to his call.
“Oh, willow, woe is me!Alack and well-a-day!If I were only freeI’d hie me far away!”
Unknown her face and name,But this he knew right well,The maiden’s wailing cameFrom out a dungeon cell.
A hapless woman layWithin that dungeon grim—That fact, I’ve heard him say,Was quite enough for him.
“I will not sit or lie,Or eat or drink, I vow,Till thou art free as I,Or I as pent as thou.”
Her tears then ceased to flow,Her wails no longer rang,And tuneful in her woeThe prisoned maiden sang:
“Oh, stranger, as you play,I recognize your touch;And all that I can sayIs, thank you very much.”
He seized his clarion straight,And blew thereat, untilA warden oped the gate.“Oh, what might be your will?”
“I’ve come, Sir Knave, to seeThe master of these halls:A maid unwillinglyLies prisoned in their walls.”’
With barely stifled sighThat porter drooped his head,With teardrops in his eye,“A many, sir,” he said.
He stayed to hear no more,But pushed that porter by,And shortly stood beforeSIR HUGH DE PECKHAM RYE.
SIR HUGH he darkly frowned,“What would you, sir, with me?”The troubadour he downedUpon his bended knee.
“I’ve come, DE PECKHAM RYE,To do a Christian task;You ask me what would I?It is not much I ask.
“Release these maidens, sir,Whom you dominion o’er—Particularly herUpon the second floor.
“And if you don’t, my lord”—He here stood bolt upright,And tapped a tailor’s sword—“Come out, you cad, and fight!”
SIR HUGH he called—and ranThe warden from the gate:“Go, show this gentlemanThe maid in Forty-eight.”
By many a cell they past,And stopped at length beforeA portal, bolted fast:The man unlocked the door.
He called inside the gateWith coarse and brutal shout,“Come, step it, Forty-eight!”And Forty-eight stepped out.
“They gets it pretty hot,The maidens what we cotch—Two years this lady’s gotFor collaring a wotch.”
“Oh, ah!—indeed—I see,”The troubadour exclaimed—“If I may make so free,How is this castle named?”
The warden’s eyelids fill,And sighing, he replied,“Of gloomy PentonvilleThis is the female side!”
The minstrel did not waitThe Warden stout to thank,But recollected straightHe’d business at the Bank.
FERDINANDO AND ELVIRA OR, THE GENTLE PIEMAN